


Two loves I have, of comfort and despair.

by rufflefeather



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Whipping, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-06
Updated: 2012-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 13:56:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufflefeather/pseuds/rufflefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin defies Uther and is sentenced to receive a lashing. Arthur must give it. Set between Season 2 and 3. </p>
<p>Disclaimer: Merlin belongs to the BBC, I just play with the characters</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two loves I have, of comfort and despair.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Sonnet 144 by William Shakespeare.

The iron bit into his wrists. The wooden pole smelt damp and moldy, a sickly combination that made Merlin’s stomach turn. He kept his eyes open, because whenever he closed them he saw Arthur’s face, and how it had drawn pale at his father’s words.

“Fifteen lashes for your insubordination, _boy_. And the Prince will deal them.”

“Father!” Arthur had protested, because all Merlin had done was stand up for him. Because he had been just as worn and worried by Morgana’s disappearance as Uther had. “You can’t.”

“You will _do_ as I say unless you wish to feel the leaden end of a rod yourself,” Uther roared, rising from his throne. The entire court had sucked in a flinching breath and Merlin had to stop himself from putting a hand on Arthur’s arm.

“It’s all right,” he had whispered and Arthur’s jaw had tensed and he had turned ashen. The harrowed look hadn’t left him since, so Merlin kept his eyes locked on the wall opposite from where he was shackled. He could withstand his own pain, he didn’t think he could carry Arthur’s as well.

“I’ll be as quick and as gentle as I can Merlin,” Arthur had hissed in his ear. “I am so s-.”

“Just-,” Merlin interrupted. “Just do it.” He didn't look at the whip. Didn't think he could endure the sight of Arthur's hand curled around the leather.

Arthur’s fingers fluttered over the back of his neck and for a terrible second, Merlin thought Arthur was going to touch him there, maybe run his hands over his nape in comfort. But then he heard the ripping of fabric and his torso jolted with the force of it. Cold air rushed over his naked back and Merlin tried to swallow down his fear. He could do this. Would have to do this. He wouldn’t cry out, wouldn’t make this any worse for Arthur than it already was.

“Merlin,” Arthur said softly, before he turned and walked away to, Merlin knew, give him room to wield the whip. If Uther wasn’t watching from his balcony, and Merlin knew he was watching, he could feel it, could almost feel the relish in the gaze that rested on his back, then he might have made things easier on himself with magic. But even then, in some perverted sort of way, Merlin felt he was doing this for Arthur. He had defied Uther by telling him risking his son’s life to find his ward was madness, which probably earned him more than a lashing. So this was for Arthur, for his suffering, proof of how Merlin suffered with him.

The first strike, for as much as Merlin had tensed his body against it, was still a complete shock. It felt like someone spilled liquid fire over his back, and it stung from his shoulder to his hip. He bit his lip, pain to counter pain, he thought bitterly, and closed his eyes. He didn’t see Arthur’s face now, only red streaks against a black backdrop.

“You have to,” he heard Arthur say, his voice choked and dim. “You have to count, Merlin.”

He took a deep breath. “One,” he said, pleased his voice didn’t break. The whip cracked again, the biting pain following a mere stunted breath later. “Two.” The vision behind his eyelids turned white. “Three.” This time, his voice did break, and he imagined the hitched breath wasn’t his, but Arthur’s. “Four.” Something hot and sticky began to run down his back, stinging where it touched his shredded skin. “Five,” he almost cried out, before going back to biting his lip. He wouldn’t scream, couldn’t scream, didn’t want to imagine what it would do to Arthur if he did. His knees trembled, and only when he became aware of the iron digging into his wrists, did he realize they had given out. “Six,” he bit out, through gritted teeth. His back arched, as if it tried to get away from the whip, as if pressing closer to the scourging pole would bring more distance between him and the rod. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t hold on any longer. When the sound of the whip cracked through the cold air again, his skin already contracted, it crawled in anticipation of the pain. “Seven!” he shouted out and he could hear Arthur stifle a moan. Only half way through, and Merlin was already half unconscious. His cheeks and hair were wet and he shivered violently. He had made it rain.

Merlin lost count at twelve. His whole body burned and for a wild moment his delirious mind forgot where he was. Merlin thought he was on a pyre, that flames licked their way through the fog, eager to caress his skin in a twisted last embrace. Merlin thought this was his end, that his magic had finally betrayed him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled against the sky, his head hanging limply back, rain filling the corners of his eyes, mingling with his tears. “I’m sorry Arthur.” His wrists bruised from carrying all his weight, blood trickling down his forearms, where his sleeves had fallen back. It felt like fire reached his spine and his last thought, before he slipped into oblivion, was remorse for not making Arthur understand that everything he had done, it had all been for him.

~~~

Merlin cried out. The pain was searing through him and he started, wrestled against the hands holding him down. Was he dead? Had he burnt? Was this hell? But if it was, then it smelt of Arthur. If it was then it meant hell was a soft surface against his bare chest, a pillow beneath his head.

“Shhh, it’s all right. I’m here.”

“Arthur,” Merlin croaked, and his throat felt dry. Must be from the fire, he thought. But then something wet touched his back again, the same thing that had made him start up in the first place and he remembered. He tried to turn, opened his eyes, but Arthur’s firm hands stopped him. “Did I scream?” he whispered, when Arthur walked around the bed and knelt before him. He gently placed the wet, bloodied cloth on the table beside him.

“Once,” Arthur whispered, stroking the hair from Merlin’s forehead. He looked wretched, like he had felt every single one of the lashes. And if Merlin knew him at all, he probably had. He lifted an arm, ignoring the sharp pain that shot through him and wrapped his hand around Arthur’s wrist before he could move it away.

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “I’m not angry with you. Please Arthur, don’t feel bad. On top of all this, I can’t stand to see you suffer.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, and looked away, his expression even more pained than before. “I hurt you,” he said hoarsely, when Merlin didn’t respond, didn’t let go, just waited for him to lift his eyes again.

“You did,” Merlin told him, resting his cheek against the pillow. “But that’s okay.” _I deserve it_ , he thought, _for lying to you, for hiding who I really am. This is my penance, my burden, my guilt._

“It’s not. Tell me what to do, Merlin. I’ll do anything, _anything_.”

Merlin let his hand slacken, and it skimmed down Arthur’s wrist, who caught it. Merlin wanted to keep looking at him, keep telling him it was okay, but everything hurt and his eyes slid closed. They didn’t even open when Arthur pushed his lips tentatively against Merlin’s knuckles, his thumbs caressing the bruised skin of his forearms.

“Merlin,” he said, hoarsely. Another kiss, firmer now, to the back of his hand. Two. Another, to the inside of his palm. Three. “Merlin.” To the frail bones of his wrist. Four. “Merlin.” A hand stroking softly along his arm. Merlin’s breath hitched without pain. A kiss to the crease of his elbow. Five.

When Arthur reached for his lips, (six, his shoulder. Seven, his jaw. Eight, his left eye,) they were wet and already a little swollen. Merlin wondered if he was still delirious, but the hand at the back of his neck felt warm and delicious.

“Does it hurt, when you move?” Arthur asked him, pressing his face into the crook of Merlin’s neck, inhaling deeply.

A kiss to the nape of his neck. Nine.

“A little,” Merlin said, but he moved regardless, shifting carefully to the side so Arthur could climb on the bed beside him. Arthur pulled his tunic over his head.

“Lie on top of me,” Arthur told him, coaxing Merlin up, one hand carefully holding on to the unmarked skin of his left shoulder, the other sliding beneath him to his right hip. Merlin winced when the muscles in his back coiled beneath the ripped skin, even though Arthur tried to take most of his weight.

“Merlin,” he whispered, his eyes hollow and tired, running his hands over Merlin’s bare arms. “Merlin.”

Lips to his temple. Ten.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Merlin said, dropping his head, cheek resting against Arthur’s.

Mouth open against his collarbone. Eleven.

“Let me make you feel better,” Arthur said against his ear.

Tongue against his earlobe. Twelve.

Arthur’s hand slid down Merlin’s side, and came to rest against the swell of his arse, pressing them closer together.

“Do you want me to stop?” Arthur asked him, and his breath was hot against Merlin’s cheekbone. With every breath that pushed Arthur’s chest against his own, Merlin seemed to lose a little of the pain. He shook his head, lifting it minutely and Arthur met his lips again. By the time he licked them open, Merlin had lost count.

**Author's Note:**

> [Here at LJ.](http://rufflefeather.livejournal.com/12430.html#cutid1)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A King's Punishment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/382856) by [twilightfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightfire/pseuds/twilightfire)




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